Little Watson
by runraggedycas
Summary: A collection of short stories involving my character Aria Watson. {No order}


She never visited him on sunny days.

As much as Aria Watson loved him, she could never bring herself to visit his grave on a day that the sun was blazing; it was wrong. If the weather wasn't miserable, she didn't visit. If it was, she visited.

Usually she would spend most of her day out there, sitting in front of his grave while spilling her heart out. Although Aria didn't believe in the afterlife, she still did it. It comforted her, in some way, which she thought was stupid considering that he wouldn't have cared for what she had to say had he have been alive.

Aria trudged through the wet grass on a regular day, her grey rucksack slung over her back filled with a blanket, a few Thermos flasks filled with coffee and a smaller flask that nobody knew about, filled to the brim with whiskey. She wore a pair of light blue jeans and a black vest, covered with a red and black plaid shirt.

There were dark shadows underneath her dull hazel eyes, a constant reminder of her lack of sleep and what prevented her from getting any.

Aria saw him regularly, whether awake or asleep, but at night it was worse. At night she was forced to watch him fall over and over and over again, she was forced to look down at his body where it lay on the pavement, unmoving and bloody. At night she was forced to watch the death of Sherlock Holmes on a loop, the death of the man she loved.

As she reached his grave, she dropped to the ground, her knees hitting the grass painfully. She didn't really care, though.

His headstone was made from black marble with only his name carved into it. Although the lettering was gold, it was the simplest gravestone in the entire cemetery, as far as Aria was aware. It was the total opposite of the man himself. Sherlock Holmes was anything _but_ simple.

"I miss you," she said.

"I know," he replied.

Aria turned to face him, sighing sadly. "I'm not crazy," she declared, looking into his stunning ice-blue eyes. "I don't understand why I keep seeing you. It's been two years. Two whole years. Why am I not over you, Sherlock? Why do I keep seeing you everywhere I go?"

It felt like she had this conversation every day of her life. She probably did.

"It's okay," he told her. His dark curls were a little shorter than Aria remembered and there was a little more stubble on his face than he usually liked. "I'm back now."

The young woman shook her head, turning back towards his grave. "You tell me that everyday. You're not really back, though. You're just inside my head. You aren't real. You died. I saw it. I see it every night." Aria squeezed her eyes shut as the memory replayed inside her mind. She hadn't had the chance to tell him that she loved him. Not properly, anyway.

"That was two years ago," Sherlock said. "Times have changed."

Aria laughed bitterly. "Times don't change that much." She paused. "Are you a ghost?" The youngest Watson turned to face him again, tilting her head slightly to the right as she watched the projection of her dead love.

"I'm not dead, Little Watson." You heard the words but you didn't believe them. Who would? Aria had watched him _die_. He couldn't still be alive, as much as she wished he was.

"Why do you have to torture me?" she finally cried, hanging her head. "I just want to move on! I can't live my life like this anymore, Sherlock, I can't. They keep telling me that I need to let go, that it's unhealthy to still be clinging onto you after all this time. They don't understand, though. If only it were that easy."

Warm hands forced her head up to meet guilty eyes. "Listen to me," he said, his voice soft. "I needed to keep you safe, Aria. If I hadn't have done what I did, I'd be the one at your grave-only you _really would_ be dead, along with John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. Do you understand?"

Blinking slowly, Aria let the words sink in. "You...you faked...it?"

Regret was etched into his face. "I had to. You had to believe I was dead until I took down Moriarty's network. It was to keep you all safe. I had no other choice."

Her lips moved slightly as she stared at him, eyes wide as she took it in.

"What did you say?" Sherlock asked. He hated himself for what he did, for what he put his friends through. Everyday he had to remind himself that it was for their own safety and that until the network threatening their lives was completely demolished, he couldn't come back to London.

Aria spoke louder this time. "I tried to kill myself," she repeated, voice void of all emotion.

Sherlock's breath hitched. Why hadn't Mycroft told him? "Why?"

"I thought I was crazy," she shrugged. "John thought so, Mrs Hudson thought so, so did Lestrade and Mycroft. Even _strangers_ seemed to think so. What good is a crazy person to the world?"

"Why else?" he pressed. He knew she was holding something else back. There was another reason why, something she wasn't telling him.

"The truth?"

"The truth."

"I saw you everywhere I went. You were always there, no matter what I did. Your death haunted my dreams. I hardly sleep anymore. After a while I just couldn't take it anymore."

Suddenly, he hated himself a hundred times more.

He struggled for words, not sure what to say. The vacant look in your eye made him feel nauseous, knowing that he was the one who made you this way. He should have told you, he knew that now, only it was two years too late.


End file.
